Explode
by Timelessdemon
Summary: Just why were John and Mycroft were worried so much about Sherlock's drug addiction in the 4th episode, if he was meant to be 'clean' before and during the 1st . Warnings: Contains details about biological decomposition and death.


Wrote this in about four hours when I should have been thinking about going to sleep, so if the spelling or grammar looks a bit wonky that's probably why, lol. Anyways, please read and review...

* * *

Opening one weary eye John looked over to the alarm clock on his bedside table - 9:30am - definitely time to get up. After getting dressed, John walked out of his room to go and watch some tv before Sherlock woke up and pulled him into yet another murder mystery case.

Yawning slightly, John got up and walked to the living room, suprised at seeing Sherlock already there, sitting on the sofa, head in hands, rigidly staring directly ahead.

"Well you're up early", John remarked flicking on the tv and sitting down next to Sherlock, "What happened? Did Mycroft send you another text just to bother you?". Sherlock gave a quiet bark of a laugh, quietly muttering, "Something to that effect, yes".

Sherlock remained silent after that, John just flicked through the channels not bothering to pry, he'd seen enough of Sherlock's moods to know when he was better off just leaving Sherlock to sort his own mental demons (or whatever they were) out.

One hour of day time tv later and John was now entirely sure that he could find something better to do with his time. "Alright then, well I'm off out", said John getting up from the sofa and going towards the door, "See you later Sherlock". "Hmm...", was the only reply John recieved, he closed the door and walked out, going to find some better company ...and some breakfast.

* * *

**One hour later:**

In the flat, Sherlock tilled his head to the left, eyes not moving from the wall ahead, "Hey John, do you know why there's so few words that begin with the letter Q? ...I don't, I used to know alot of that trivia stuff, forgotten most - deleted it - But you know, it doesn't matter, they say it does, but it doesn't matter... does anything really matter annyway?"

"...We'll all die at sometime, and that in itself has some amount of logic to it- It's evolution, if no one died, we'd all be stuck here starving to death due to famine caused by overpopulation... Fights, riots, it'd be a contant life filled with torture and no relief... Left to live and fester away on a murky, over-populated planet, people would have to resort to cannibalism in order to survive... But then I suppose if you couldn't die then you wouldn't need to eat anyway, I suppose you could just remain there with everyone else waiting for all eternity for nothingness, while your brain continues to rot from non-use.

"Just like my uncle really, he'll be in the ground next Tuesday, he's going to rot - Of course, the rotting will have started aready. But that's just regimortis, a process in which the body goes stiff, all air, oxygen, liquid and other bodily secretions leave the body, giving it it's typical death stench and leaving the body to look dry and hollow".

"But it doesn't end there, oh no. The blood within the body also goes stiff, causing the body to be permantely immobile (the arms, legs and other apendages now also being entirely immobile) unless of course you warm the entire body up, allowing the blood to move more freely around the system, therefore allowing you to move and set the limbs into a more natural looking position".

"Natural! Huh! Such a normal word... such an average word. He's dead, he died in that position and he'll never know anything more to be able to care. And that sums it up yes, I'm never going to see him again, and that's that... He's dead, end of, no more... I don't get to see, hear or talk to him again...".

"But you see though, that's evolution -cruelty itself wrapped up in mammilian nature... We've all gotta go sometime... me, you, everyone eventually... We all - ".

"Stop me John... I can't do this, I don't do emotions, I can't. I don't even know how to...".

"Just... just make me focus on something else... Tell me that one about how the moon moves round the sun or something... John? ...John?".

A pain/panic stricken Sherlock looked around the room, but John had left already.

Sherlock could tell that the absence of coat and keys from the hanger and doorside table, the remote control left where John always left it and by the door which had been left open a crack for Mrs Hudson to come in and clean when she wanted to.

Mrs Hudson was old... She shouldn't be bending down so much it was bad for her hip. which was slowly giving out pain, the bone degrading, such as would his uncle's body from here on afterwards, pale skin, cold skin, stiff blood, permantely shut eyes never to open again- unless by force.

Sherlock had seen enough dead bodies to know that, he himself was degrading slowly, wrinkles beginning to appear on his forehead, eventually greying hair, decaying muscle and bone structure, increased weakness and low immune system, possible slow degration of the mind, bladder, everything, and John too, he would...

_"You're gonna die Sherlock"_ His mind began to whisper to itself, _"...and so is everyone around you, it's just like a game except there's no winner... No second chance, no ability to start over... You'll have no conrol over happens next... it's all just one big-"._

"STOP IT!", Sherlock yelled to his mind through gritted teeth.

He couldn't do this, his mind was basically eating itself, tearing through the hippocampus and chomping it's way through the amygdala, and 'he' was awake through the entire process...

He needed something, something to take the edge off... Something, something to just stop this... All this feeling, all this confusion, looking straight ahead, Sherlock gazed towards what he had been staring at before John left... his hidden stash in the wall.

Sherlock knew, knew that, this time more than many before, he 'needed' it.

* * *

**Meanwhile at London's national war museum:**

John glanced round at the displays, looking over the various war related artifacts and smirking slightly as he read a notice, explaining about the almost medieval methods that had once been used for a broken leg in world war 1...

_- Ring, ring, -_

John felt for his phone and took it out of his shirt pocket, the name read 'Mycroft', John pressed the answer button and spoke.

"Hello?"

"Hello John, tell me, how's my little brother doing?"

"Dunno, he was being a bit quiet today so I went out."

"Do you know for sure that he's ok?"

"He was when I left, why?"

"...His ...Our only uncle died last night, Mother texted him the news but I would have much rather have told him myself. He was very fond of that uncle of ours... If you're not too far away could you just go back to check on him, make sure he hasn't... It's just that I'm sure he'd prefer you to..."

"Yeah... Don't worry I'm on my way... and sorry to hear about your..."

"Yes, thankyou."

* * *

**Around 30 minutes later:**

John hurried home, taking the steps up to their flat two at a time before flinging open their apartment door to find Sherlock... sleeping? Giving a frustrated sigh, John shook his head and went off to the kitchen to make a well deserved drink after 25 minutes of rushing back home for this...

Taking his time, John made a weak tea and walked over to go to his own roo- "OW!", John yelled out, falling over something left on the floor, and smashing his teacup in the process. A bit dazed, John got up and looked over to Sherlock who had apparently managed to sleep through entire mishap despite John falling over directly next to Sherlock's sofa.

...Odd. John got up and glanced around himself to see just what he had tripped over, a strange orange bottle was found under foot and a used injector not far from it. Confusion and then finally, fear dripped into the mind of John Watson, as he realised just why Sherlock had been so quiet.

"Hey Sherlock?", Watson called, snapping his fingers and waving his hands infront of the oblivious detective's face, "Sherlock say something!", Watson shouted, raising his voice and lightly slapping Shelock's on the side of his face.

-Nothing-

Frustrated, Watson hurriedly grabbed at Sherlock's wrist and felt for a pulse, there but at a worryingly slow rate. "Sherlock?", Watson tried again, "What have you taken? Sherlock? ...Oh shit! Oh shit!".

Watson quickly took his mobile out and dialed for the hospital, giving detailed information about Sherlock and their own location.

That done, John sat close to the drugged detective and phoned Mycroft.

"Hello?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock's taken something, he's still breathing but barely, I've called for an ambulance they said they'd be here soon"

"Kinda wish you hadn't done that"

"What? He was dying Mycroft!"

"Even so, I have people who could... Nevermind, stay with him, I'll meet you at the hospital later"

* * *

**At the hospital:**

John Watson stood worriedly as a nurse spoke to him about what had happened, "He's very weak, he overdosed on various forms of cocaine, it took well over an hour to get it all out of his system, he should be ok for now but I wouldn't let him get too stressed".

Walking into the room, John set his eyes on the pale faced detective, who lay with various tubes and injections sticking into his skin.

Eyes meeting, John asked Sherlock the difficult question, "Why?".

Sherlock smiled as if in pain, "It doesn't stop John, my brain's like a train without a station, it keeps going and going until it runs itself out, destroying it's own wheels, engine and anything in it's path, I need it to stop even if it means... this".

All focus suddenly turned to the opening door as Mycroft stode in, calmly looking over to the deathly pale Sherlock, "And how is my baby brother?". Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered, "Great(!)".

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Please read and review.


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